


A Story About Moving Day

by HugeAlienPie



Series: The Sitcom Verse [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Normal Life, First Meetings, Food, M/M, Matchmaker Nick Fury, Moving, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Relationship, Secrets, Traumatic Pasts Galore, bad jokes as flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 19:38:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15979064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: Nick Fury would prefer to have everyone leave him out of their family drama. But sometimes hesawthings. Like, maybe Mack was a good renter for Phil and Melinda's house. And then maybe Mack was a good match for Fitz. When Fury saw these things, he had to do something about them, or he couldn't sleep. And everyone remembered what happened when General Fury couldn't sleep.





	A Story About Moving Day

**_July 2010_ **

Nick would deny to his dying day that he had anything to do with it, but it started like this:

Tucked in beside Nick on his living room couch, Melinda smirked at her phone as her fingers flew across the screen. "Not as clever as you think, kiddo," she said.

Nick drew patterns up and down her arm with his fingertips. "Which one?"

"Fitz. Trying to get out of his turn at yard work. His excuses are amusing, but highly improbable." Melinda turned the phone so Nick could see the screen.

 **FITZ:** can't mow today  
**FITZ:** helping Jemma's friend Gwendolyn w emergency

"It's not a bad play," she admitted. "Phil and I emphasized the value of compassion and helping others in times of crisis."

The lesson had taken damned well, judging by everything Nick had seen over the years. "Then what's the problem?"

"The problem," Melinda said, rolling her eyes, "is that my dear son doesn't think I listen to everything my children tell me."

Nick looked farther down the screen.

 **ME** : rat race too much for her?

"Gwendolyn isn't Jemma's friend," Melinda said. "She's a rat in one of her experiments."

Nick barked a laugh. "Why don't you hire a service to take care of the yard?"

"Because we have _children_ , Nick. What else are they for?" Melinda's expression turned thoughtful while Nick chortled. "We need a renter."

"No bites yet?"

"Not even a nibble. It's a huge house. Too big for one person or most couples—but Phil and I don't want kids in there while we hope to sell. Maybe it's selfish of me, but I don't want to be cleaning up after that level of chaos."

Nick didn't understand why Melinda and Phil didn't put the house on the market now. Then any family could bring in any level of chaos, and it wouldn't be their problem. But he'd long since given up on making sense of what these two did, and it hadn't gotten easier since he and Melinda started dating. Mouth shut and eyes open was the way to survive the Coulson-Mays. "I'm keeping an ear out," Nick promised. "Let you know if I hear anything."

She leaned over and kissed the corner of his mouth. "I appreciate it." Then she looked down at her phone and snickered. Peering over her arm at the screen, Nick laughed, too.

 **FITZ:** be there in an hour

*

**_August 2010_ **

You didn't get to Mack's level in the army without being able to look your best under any circumstances.

Then again, you didn't get to Fury's level without being able to spot the cracks in the façade.

"Mackenzie!" Fury yelled as Mack made his slow, careful way down the G-8 hallway. Mack grimaced. Why had Fury chosen _this_ morning to terrorize his department? They didn't have any new arrivals for the general to freak out. "You move like a 90-year-old man!"

Mack saluted and held up his large travel mug. "I'll be all right, General. Just need a boost." He took a donut hole out of Fury's giant plastic cup, because it was tradition. It was what Pentagon employees _did_ when General Fury arrived unexpectedly in their part of the building. And because Fury brought the best donut holes in the area and refused to divulge his source.

"Not enough coffee in the world for the boost you need," Fury grumbled. "How much longer you gonna bunk in that rec room?"

Mack shrugged and swigged his coffee, grimacing when it went down bitter. The British had strange ideas about coffee. "Josh and John are the only people I know with enough room for me and enough yard for the dogs."

"But their couch isn't big enough for you."

"No couch is big enough for me," Mack said, trying not to think of the California King that would never be full again, even if it hadn't been sold, along with the house and everything else it contained.

"There's this newfangled thing people are trying," Fury said, leaning back in the rolling chair he'd stolen out of someone's office and resting his hands on his stomach. "It's called buying a house. Tim wouldn't want you stuck in a rec room because—"

"There's another thing people are trying," Mack said through gritted teeth. Fury flinched, and Mack didn't care. He was a far cry from the mess he'd been four years ago, but he wouldn't let _anyone_ , even his boss, tell him what Tim would or wouldn't want for him. "It's called staying in your lane." After a pause a heartbeat shy of insubordination, he added, "General."

Fury held up his hands. "All right. Understood. You still looking to rent a house?"

Mack nodded. "If I can find one with a big enough yard for the dogs to run around in."

Fury looked ready to dismiss him, but then he paused, drumming his fingers on the arms of his chair. "How you feel about Arlington?"

"It's okay, I guess."

"You'd be willing to live there?" Fury pressed.

"If it was the right house," Mack said with a shrug.

"You hang tight on that couch a while longer. I might know a place." He stood and reached into his pocket for his personal phone. Mack hovered uncertainly until Fury looked up at him. "Dismissed, Mackenzie."

Mack nodded gratefully and saluted. "General."

As he turned away, he heard Fury say, "Mel, it's Nick. Got a lead on a renter for you."

*

That part, Nick didn't deny. His role in getting Mack into the Coulson-May house was a matter of public knowledge, and one Nick was damned proud of.

What happened next— _that_ , he claimed to know nothing about.

*

The third time Clint missed his turn because he was staring at his phone, Nick snapped. "Someplace you'd rather be, Barton?"

Clint looked up and blinked in surprise. "Sorry, what?"

Phil snorted. "Jemma had a date tonight," he explained, and Nick felt a pang of nostalgia for the days when no one felt obligated to share their family dramas with him. "Daisy's been giving Clint the play-by-play."

Clint's phone vibrated again, and he winced as he looked at it. "Blow-by-blow, at this point. It, uh, didn't go well." Four vibrations in rapid succession. "Now Daisy's freaking out because Jemma turned down her offer to beat somebody up, and she doesn't know how to help." He glanced slyly at Phil. "I assume you don't want me to suggest scotch as a cure-all." On Nick's other side, Jasper coughed on a laugh.

Phil shrugged. "They're not driving tonight."

"Daisy's _sixteen_!" Clint said, his voice spiking with indignation.

"And not driving tonight," Phil said again.

Clint shook his head, eyeing Phil narrowly. "Someday, Phil Coulson, I _will_ figure out your parenting philosophy."

"What does not kill you makes you stronger," Jasper murmured.

Phil flipped Jasper off as he dealt replacement cards. "That's _your_ philosophy," he said tartly.

Jasper spread his hands. "And behold my two strong, not-dead daughters."

"Your tiny Machiavellis, you mean," Nick said.  " _How_ has Maria put up with you all these years?"

"I have my charms."

Clint snorted. "Belching the national anthem and finding the best food in every North American city are _not_ charms."

" _Two_ national anthems, and my food-finding abilities saved your boyfriend's life in Portage la Prairie."

"It didn't _save my life,_ Jasper, don't be melodramatic," Phil said. Jasper stared at him, and after a minute he smiled sheepishly and stared at his cards. "Okay, maybe it saved my life a little."

"That's what I _thought_ ," Jasper muttered. Then he kept on looking at Phil, contemplative. "Your kids single these days?"

"That I know of," Phil said with a shrug.

Clint laughed. "That you know of," he mocked. "What, you think one of them's in a secret relationship?" It was Phil's turn to stare, unspeaking, and Clint snapped his mouth shut and looked away.

"Jemma and Fitz claim to be going through 'a period of self-discovery,'" Phil said, unperturbed. "In Jemma's case, that involves dating every woman who looks halfway interesting. Fitz mostly yells at the coffee maker. I don't know what that accomplishes, but I'm told they're trying to figure out their type."

Clint scoffed. "Fitz's type is anyone who can halfway keep up with him in a conversation."

"That's hardly—" Phil began, but Clint cut him off.

"Maybe _you've_ forgotten last month's Great Rabbit Sniffles Debacle, but I haven't. If Elsa and I hadn't been in the room, Fitz and the vet tech would've jumped each other right there on the exam table."

Phil made a hilariously distressed face, and Jasper asked, "Who's Elsa?"

Nick assumed someone answered, but he wasn't listening. He'd had a thought that wouldn't shake loose, no matter how desperately he wanted it to.

*

"I was going to offer you beer to thank you for your help," Mack said, frowning into his refrigerator, "but I'm not sure we earned it."

Nick tended to agree, and it made his blood boil. Mack was one of the most decorated active members the United States Army and one of the most genuinely good and decent people Nick had ever met. And for the past three months he'd been living out of two large suitcases and two bankers boxes—one of which was full of dog supplies. He had a few more boxes in his hosts' garage, but it was too little to show for a life lived with valor and integrity.

Instead of venting his rage at the injustice Mack had endured for the past four years, Nick forced himself to smirk. "I was promised beer. Didn't say how much I had to do to earn it."

Mack chuckled as he pulled three beers out of the refrigerator and popped off the caps with his hands before handing one to Nick and one to Bobbi. "Fair point." He dropped next to Nick on the sofa bed and picked at the label. "You guys didn't have to do this, you know."

From her sprawl across the room's only chair, Bobbi kicked him lightly on the shin. "You needed our help; we gave it; shut up."

Mack looked around the bare room. "This took us two hours. I would've survived."

"Still."

"Still." Mack nodded and lifted his beer bottle. "It's weird, is all I'm saying. Not you," he said, waving at Bobbi. "You, General. You wouldn't do this for the other deputies."

Nick lifted an eyebrow. "Wouldn't I? You musta been gone the day I spent nine goddamn hours helping Leclaire assemble nursery furniture for his new granddaughter."

Mack and Bobbi choked on their beers. "Must've," Mack said.

"All right, then," Nick said. They drank in silence for a minute, and then Nick had to know. "Glad to be getting out of here?"

Mack nodded. "John and Josh have been good to me, but me and the kids, we need more room. They're going crazy cooped up in here." Proving the point, Asta, who thought she was a tiny lap dog like her namesake, rather than a seventy-pound Carpathian shepherd, barreled onto the couch and tried to burrow under Mack's arm. He smiled and scratched her shaggy head, but frustration was clear in his voice when he said, "See what I mean?"

Nick chuckled. Bobbi swore and moved her beer bottle when Asta almost upended it with her tail.

"Maybe nice to get a clean break," Mack said softly. Nick tried not to react; Mack spoke so infrequently about his personal life, and Nick didn't want to spook him. "I fought hard for the house, but it was never the house that mattered. It was keeping what Tim and I built together and his family respecting that. A new house, with no connection to any of that? Yeah." He nodded and took a drink. "Maybe I need that."

"You think about finding someone to share that new start with?"

Mack and Bobbi turned fast and stared at Nick with wide eyes, like they couldn't believe he had asked that. To be honest, he could barely believe it himself. Why did he do this to himself? Why did he ask questions that put him in a position to _care_ about other people's messy lives and their messy _feelings_?

But Mack was relaxing, subsiding into the cushions with a thoughtful expression as his hand ran over Asta's fur. Eventually, slowly, he nodded. "I do. I hadn't. During the lawsuit it was... I couldn't ask anyone to share my life when my life included fighting my first partner's' family. I didn't get to _grieve_ right. Jumped right from losing Tim to the mess with his family, and nothing in between. Sometimes I think that wound will never heal right. Wondered for a long time if it'd be fair to ask anybody else to deal with that." He smiled crookedly. "But if somebody's reckless enough to take the risk, who'm I to tell them no?"

Nick rolled his eyes. "You mean, if somebody's smart enough to see what you've got to offer."

Mack waggled his eyebrows. "You offering, General?"

"The world would never survive," Bobbi muttered.

"Stand down, LG," Nick growled, and Mack rumbled with laughter. "So I can start chucking scrawny white nerds your way?"

Mack coughed beer into his hand. "White was a coincidence, not a requirement."

Bobbi snorted. "I don't hear you denying the scrawny nerd part."

Mack shrugged and looked around the empty space. Nick wondered what he saw. "Doubt either of you got a big supply of scrawny nerds laying around."

"That is true," Nick conceded. He took a large swallow of beer to keep from voicing the second half of his thought.

He didn't need a big supply. He needed _one_ —if it was the right one.

*

Fitz grumbled at the first chime of his alarm clock, which sounded oddly muffled. He reached out to slap it off and encountered soft and fluffy instead. Fitz cracked one eye open and stared at the round-eyed face staring back at him.

"Morning, ninja rabbit," he muttered sleepily. "How'd you get out, then?" As was her wont, Elsa kept mum.

Elsa safely restored to her cage in the main room, Fitz staggered to the section of the apartment he and Jemma generously called the kitchen. He poured coffee ( _thank you_ , Jemma), assembled a passable breakfast out of the bits of bread, bacon, and cheese lurking about the refrigerator, and slowly came to the realization that he was sitting in a sisterless apartment.

The clock on the microwave told him it was eight-fifteen—plenty of time for Jemma to be back from her morning row, and pushing things if they wanted to get to the house by ten, which was when Uncle Nick said the new guy would need their help. The new guy. _Christ_.

Fitz was trying not to pre-hate this guy—Mackenzie, Uncle Nick said his name was. It wasn't his fault Fitz's mother had decided she and Daisy weren't going to live in Fitz's childhood home anymore. It wasn't his fault Fitz's parents had split up in the first place.

It still sucked. And it sucked extra hard that Uncle Nick expected Fitz and Jemma to help an interloper move into _their_ house.

Fitz sighed and stood, carrying his empty dishes to the sink to wash them. As he was going for his second cup of coffee, he spotted the note Jemma had propped up next to the coffee maker.

" _breakfast w/new people after row"_

Breakfast out? Well, Fitz would have to trust that Jemma would be home in time to get there by ten.

By eight forty-five, Fitz was dressed and mildly worried.

By nine, a panic attack felt imminent.

At nine ten, he was pacing the apartment with his phone to his ear.

When Jemma answered, Fitz heard the unmistakable clamor of the greasy spoon where she and her fellow rowers often went for the piles of grease and carbs they craved after an hour on the river. "Fitz?" she hollered, and then everything went quiet.

"Jemma? _Jemma_! Bloody shithole basement apartment."

"—tz? You there?"

"Yes, I'm here. And you're there. Why are you there?"

" _Which_ one?" Jemma said.

" _No,_ Jemma, why—" Fitz growled. "We have to leave in _five minutes_ if we want to be at the house by ten."

"Wh—ack—ouse?"

" _Our_ house. To help Uncle Nick's friend."

" _What_?"

"MACKENZIE!"

" _What_ did he send you?"

Fitz banged his head against the wall. "Should I leave without you?"

"What about me?"

Then Fitz's phone beeped, and the call was lost. He grabbed his wallet, Metro pass, and keys and left the apartment. He didn't bother calling Jemma again.

*

At ten o'clock, Mack's doorbell rang. Asta went bonkers, jumping around and butting her head against Mack's thigh, herding him toward the door in case he hadn't heard the bell. Astro looked at them and huffed before putting his head back down on his cushion.

"Yeah, I hear it," Mack said, reaching down to pat Asta's head. "Come on." Asta charged ahead of him and sat next to the door, tail wagging frantically as she waited for Mack to let her at whoever was on the other side. " _Stay_ ," Mack warned her and ignored her disappointed whimper. He opened the door, and—ah, _shit_.

Mack hadn't intended to have much contact with his neighbors beyond ordinary politeness. He didn't know how long he would be staying here; between his restless feet and the unsettled nature, as he understood it, of the family he was renting from, he might end up leaving almost as quickly as he'd arrived. It didn't seem fair for him to get attached to the other people who lived here if he was going to leave them again.

But if this guy was representative of the caliber of neighbors around here, Mack was going to have a hard time keeping his distance.

The kid came just past Mack's shoulders. He had fair skin, curly light brown hair, and startled-looking wide blue eyes. The white T-shirt under a blue-and-white check overshirt seemed like standard hipster nerd apparel, and his skinny jeans were—well. If that was the front view, Mack wouldn't mind seeing the one in back.

He also looked like he couldn't be more than 20, which made Mack feel a little skeevy.

Still, Mack liked to indulge his weaknesses periodically. He leaned against the jamb and crossed his arms in a way that emphasized his biceps and pecs, reveling in the way the kid's eyes followed the movement and his tongue flicked out to wet his lips.

"Can I help you?" Mack drawled, drawing out the "help" and putting some heat to it.

"Fitz," the kid blurted. "Or rather, Leo. Well, Leopold oh god not Leopold _don't_ call me Leopold what was I _thinking_?"

"Whoa, Turbo, slow down," Mack said. He stared in awe as the kid's torrent of words—and the Scottish accent that went with it—permeated his brain. "Start at the beginning."

" _Please_ tell me you're Alphonso Mackenzie," oh-god-not-Leopold said, "otherwise I may have to go to the shed and literally die of, um, like embarrassment only worse."

"Mortification," Mack said.

For a long beat, they stood there staring at each other. Then not-Leopold nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said. "That one." He tilted his head. " _Are_ you Alphonso?"

"Mack. Folks call me Mack." He raised his eyebrows. "Leo?"

Leo-not-Leopold grimaced. "Fitz. Please." His expression turned thoughtful, and he turned toward the backyard. "Have you, erm, _have_ you been in the shed yet?"

Mack shook his head, bemused. "Only been here a couple hours."

Fitz nodded. "Best to let me check it, then. Long's I'm here. I _think_ Jemma and I got the, um, explodey bits, but it never hurts to double-check."

Mack hadn't known there was a penny to drop, but it dropped. "You're Phil and Melinda's son."

Fitz spun around fast, almost pitching over. His hand shot out and grabbed the railing, fingers trembling a bit. "Yeah? I'm sorry, didn't I say? Thought maybe it was, uh, that it went without saying, since it's ten and I'm here. But I've been told not to judge by, um..." He gestured vaguely. "My head."

Mack shook his head, feeling churlish and oblivious. "My fault. When General Fury said he could get one of Melinda's kids to help me move in, I assumed _kid_. I should know better, and I apologize." He had also assumed _American_ kid, but he wasn't going to admit that. Fury had mentioned that Melinda's kids were adopted, but Mack hadn't expected someone who sounded like his body woke up this morning in DC and his voice in the lowlands.

"Oh," Fitz said, chuckling, "'salright, happens all the time. In fact, my—" He stopped, and for a second Mack thought he'd lost another word. Then his eyes started flicking back and forth, obviously seeing something Mack couldn't. "Did you say ' _one of_ Melinda's kids'?"

Mack nodded. "That's what the general said."

"You're sure? Not 'a couple' or 'Melinda's kids'?"

"I can show you the text he sent," Mack offered. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Phone's this way, if you want to come in."

Fitz's lips tightened. "Think I'd better."

Mack led Fitz into the house and watched him in the periphery, but he kept his eyes straight ahead and didn't look around once. That was weird.

But, no, it wasn't weird, Mack suddenly realized. Fitz didn't need to look around Mack's house because, until six months ago, it was his home.

"Is this... okay for you?" Mack asked tentatively. He waved around at everything—being back, seeing the house emptied of most of the accessories and personalizations that has made it theirs, helping move in some random stranger on the word of, what? His mother's boyfriend?

But Fitz laughed, smashing Mack's assumptions again. "It's the same furniture," he pointed out. "Looks basically the same. Long as you don't make me mow the lawn, we're grand."

Mack unlocked his phone and turned it so Fitz could see Fury's message. Fitz stared at the screen and then blinked, lips twisting in a sardonic smile. "Bloody _buggering_ bastard," he muttered. He sounded reluctantly admiring.

Mack's eyebrows popped up as he took back his phone. "Everything okay?"

The twist of Fitz's lips grew more pronounced. "You're fine. Um, _it's_ fine. Uncle Nick and my sister _played_ me."

Huh. Okay, so maybe there was more to it than "mother's boyfriend" if Fitz was calling the general "Uncle Nick." Mack was starting to realize that Fury's family life was far weirder than he ever let on.

"So," Fitz said, spreading his arms and looking around the room, "where do you want me?"

There were a dozen answers to that question, none of them appropriate for a guy he'd known for five minutes. Fitz seemed to realize that, too, and was in the process of turning bright red and stammering out a retraction when Asta decided she'd been patient long enough.

There was nothing in the world like getting tackled onto a chair by seventy pounds of exuberant herding dog. Every resource and expert on Carpathians _ever_ said they were a calm, dignified breed, but Asta had clearly never read those books. In seconds she leapt onto Fitz and had him pinned on the chair, wriggling around in his lap to find a comfortable spot. Mack could barely see Fitz around her.

Mack took a second to make sure Fitz was okay—he seemed to be, besides being surprised and squished—and then said sharply, "Asta, _down_."

Asta complied with ill grace. Fitz struggled upright, wheezing slightly, but he waved off Mack's hand when he offered it to help Fitz stand. Fitz stayed in the chair, elbows on his legs, looking at Asta, who whuffed softly before going to her cushion next to Astro's.

"Holy Jesus, there's two of them!" Fitz said, jerking back.

Mack chuckled. "Yeah." He pointed. "The one who seems to like you a lot is Asta. The one who doesn't like anybody is Astro."

Fitz blinked up at him. "Asta and Astro? You named your _enormous_ Carpathian sheepdogs after a miniature Schnauzer and a—well, Astro was supposed to be a Great Dane, but still!" His eyes narrowed. "I didn't think they let giant nerds into the army."

Mack snorted and settled gingerly onto the couch. He hadn't tested all the furniture yet. "If you know General Fury well enough to call him 'Uncle Nick,' you know what a giant nerd _he_ is."

" _Yeah_ ," Fitz said, "and that's why I didn't think he wanted _other_ nerds. Doesn't want the competition."

Mack laughed appreciatively, and Fitz looked at him for a minute, quiet and assessing. Mack held still under the scrutiny. It felt... _important_ , somehow, to let Fitz take his full measure—at least as full a measure as he could by looking. But Fitz's eyes were sharp; Mack wouldn't be surprised to discover that he could see a lot of things that most people missed.

"So," Fitz said after a minute, "what needs moving in or unpacking or whatever? Long as Uncle Nick's volunteered me."

Mack shook his head. "You don't have to stay. The general can be hard to say no to—"

"Pfft." Fitz waved his hand. "I say no to him all the time. But I—" He bit his lip. "I'd like to help, if I can."

"Yeah, okay." Mack nodded and stood. "I was here at seven, unloading the big pieces, so there isn't much left. Clothes, mostly."

Fitz bounced to his feet. "Bedroom, then?" He caught his own implication instantly and blushed in a way that was starting to feel familiar.

Mack didn't care. Since Tim died, sure, he'd spent time with his friends and his family, when he could, but he hadn't _connected_ with anyone. Certainly no one new. Fitz... Fitz helped him feel like he didn't have to be so isolated.

It was a terrifying prospect. Mack kind of liked it.

*

"His name's Tim."

Mack and Fitz both winced as Fitz jerked, dropping the picture frame. It fell onto the bed, bouncing harmlessly once before landing face-up on the bare mattress. "He's lovely." Fitz looked up at him. "You look happy together."

Mack nodded and scooped up the photo in its chintzy gold-leaf frame. They'd been at some official military function, in full dress uniform, nodding and smiling politely at each other, "Good evening, Lieutenant General Mackenzie," and "Nice to see you, Chief Maguire," scotch and cigar smoke making the place smell like a peat fire. They'd been miserable, he remembered, both coming off long assignments and desperate for their house and their dogs and their DADT-free space. But someone—Cornelius, maybe, she usually had a camera on her—caught them in a side hallway and made them pose for this picture, one _real_ moment before everythng had been swept away.

And the frame—he didn't remember how or where or _why_ they'd gotten the damned thing; he thought it was ugly as sin, but Tim had laughed every time he looked at it. It was one of a scant and precious handful of Tim's things that Mack still had, which made it dearer to him than real gold.

He returned the picture to the nightstand and looked Fitz in the eye as he said, "We were." He owed Fitz that much.

Mack waited for the inevitable follow-up. _How long were you together? What happened to him? How can you stand to serve under Don't Ask, Don't Tell?_ But Fitz gave the photo another long look and went back to hanging up Mack's shirts.

When the bedroom boxes were empty and broken down, they moved to the kitchen. When those boxes were empty, Mack looked around the space and shook his head. "I am _not_ equipped to cook in a kitchen this impressive."

Fitz snorted. "Neither was most of my family; don't worry about it."

"What? No!" Mack spun to face Fitz. "This kitchen demands to be _used_."

"Do you cook?" Fitz asked skeptically.

"I damn well _will_ , kitchen like this."

Fitz laughed brightly, and Mack took pride in earning it. He had a suspicion not many people could. "Hang on a sec."

Five minutes on his laptop netted Mack an address outside Bethesda. He came back to the kitchen and told Fitz his plan, expecting the other man to wish him a good afternoon and be on his way. Instead Mack found himself, ten minutes later, in his truck, headed toward Maryland with Fitz in his passenger seat and a premonition of _alteration_ winding through his gut.

Everything was changing. This move was just the beginning.

*

Hands on his hips, Fitz surveyed the vast horror stretched before him. The sign towering before them announced that this was "The Largest Outlet Mall in Montgomery County." Despite where Fitz's thoughts were taking him, he suspected that was meant as a boast, not a warning.

"This is the abyss, Mack," he said. "I am gazing into the abyss."

Mack came up to stand beside him, and, oh, but he ran _hot_. That body could keep a body _nicely_ warmed all winter long. "Nah," Mack said as he looked at the mall. "That's no abyss. That there's your garden-variety void."

Fitz laughed incredulously. "What's the difference?"

Mack leaned close, like he was going to tell Fitz a secret. Or kiss him. Either option was fine by Fitz. "If you gaze into an abyss," Mack said, "the abyss gazes also into you." Then he winked—the  _cheek_!—and sauntered into the mall.

"Did you just?" Fitz asked the empty air and then sprinted to catch up with Mack's implausibly long legs. His mind and emotions were trying to catch up with—well, with _everything_.

Fitz had _eyes_. He'd noticed from the beginning that Mack was a _very_ attractive man. But this was DC, where, like it or not, electability was thirty percent platform, twenty percent photogeneity, and fifty percent spin. You couldn't throw a rock in this town without hitting someone unfairly good-looking.

But Fitz, with his laminated MENSA membership card and his back issues of the _International Journal of Theoretical Physics_ piling up under the bed, needed someone who could offer more than looks. Someone who could hold their end of a conversation. He got that the world wasn't full of geniuses, but if someone wouldn't put in the effort to _talk_ to him, he didn't understand why he should put out the effort to sleep with them.

And here was Mack, with his sparkling brown eyes and acres of dark skin over bulging muscle, his beautiful face and graceful hands, _making Nietzsche jokes in an outlet mall parking lot._ Fitz hadn't thought Mack was unintelligent, but they hadn't talked at the house beyond "That bowl goes in this cabinet" and "Can you hang this up for me?" This was a new layer revealed, and Fitz wanted to peel it away and find out what else was in there.

The scenario would be the _definition_ of "looks promising," except for the picture of Mack and his dead partner holding pride of place on the nightstand.

Over the course of two ridiculous hours in the Williams Sonoma outlet store, Mack filled his basket with actual, useful, alien cooking tools whose functions Fitz didn't know, while Fitz brought him increasingly ludicrous items whose functions he _also_ didn't know. And they talked. A lot. About family and childhood kitchens, the way Uncle Nick traumatized new Pentagon employees, and crackpot alien invasion theories. And with every sentence that left Mack's mouth, Fitz fell more.

It was depressing.

Mack wrinkled his nose at the food court options (probably preferred wheatgrass-kale smoothies with protein powder), but Fitz spotted a place that made halfway decent burritos and hauled Mack to it.

"I don't know, Turbo," Mack said warily.

Fitz managed not to shout for joy at the ridiculous nickname; he just hauled harder. "A Fitz, like a hummingbird, must eat frequently, or he dies. Either we have lunch here or you spend the entire ride home listening to me whine about how hungry I am."

Mack acquiesced. Further proof of his intelligence.

Over the enormous pile of food required to feed one man built like a tank and one constantly in motion, Mack looked at Fitz and said, "Thank you for not asking. About Tim."

Fitz swallowed his suddenly embarrassingly large mouthful of guac-loaded tortilla chip and wiped his salt-coated fingers nervously on his napkin. "You're welcome," he said, which was, of course, socially acceptable and _utterly_ inadequate to the moment. "You didn't ask about my—" He gestured at his head. "I try not to poke my nose into things that aren't my business."

Mack nodded. "I appreciate that. A lot. It's not that I don't like to talk about him, but—"

"Hey." Fitz put his hand on Mack's. He didn't think about it, or particularly mean anything by it; it was a gesture to show he was there and listening. But the contact thrilled him to his toes. He stared at the contrasts in their hands—size, color, texture—and how the differences made their hands look like they'd been aimed by billions of years of evolution toward the exact moment when they were beside each other for the first time.

Fitz pulled his hand away and shook off his fanciful thoughts. He cleared his throat. "I get it. I don't even like to talk about not talking about what happened to me. You don't owe me anything. I'm a stranger who unpacked some boxes."

Mack searched Fitz's face. "You don't feel like a stranger," he said quietly, holding Fitz's gaze.

"No," Fitz said. "Neither do you."

They didn't say much for the rest of the meal.

*

"You don't have to stick around all day. Sure you have other things to do."

Fitz looked over as Mack easily added the three remaining bags from the back of the truck to the four he was already carrying, making the two in Fitz's hands seem downright paltry. "Don't," Fitz said. "There was a fire in the lab next to ours the other day. Whole wing of the building's off-limits." He grinned. "The glamorous grad school life."

Mack chuckled and slammed the truck bed closed. "In that case, I guess we'll get this stuff put away, and then... how much, exactly, do you hate yard work?"

*

Fitz grabbed his phone before the third word of the ringtone had been sung, desperate for distraction. "Jemma, what did we _do_ to this shed?"

There was a beat, and then Jemma said briskly, "Curious young minds should have a place where they are free to explore the parameters of the world around them."

"There are _scorch marks_ on the _ceiling_. And I spent five minutes trying to take down a grasshopper carcass that was _superglued to the wall_. That's not 'curious young minds,' that's budding, budding, um, _serial killers_."

"Sociopaths," Jemma said, and Fitz growled. Cleaning the shed (which he'd offered in return for not having to do yard work) had thoroughly frayed his patience, and he _hated_ when Jemma supplied the word he'd wanted after he'd found a substitute. "Wait, are you at the house?"

Fitz threw his free hand in the air, flinging soapy water everywhere because he'd forgotten he was holding the sponge he'd been using to clean the workbench. "Of course I'm at the house! I've been here since ten."

"Why are you there?"

"Where else would I be?"

"Fitz." Jemma's voice took a tone that told Fitz that whatever she said next was going to make him _scream_.

"Jemma, _don't_ ," he ground out. "Whatever you're going to say next, _don't_."

It was like this with them, two steps forward, one step back. Most of the time, Jemma was onboard with treating Fitz like a normal, not-broken human being. And then shit like this happened.

"I don't know what you and Uncle Nick thought you were cooking up, sending me out here alone," he said, "but the joke's on you, because Mack and I are having a lovely time without you, so _there_."

"Who's Mack?"

Fitz huffed. " _Mack_. The renter." Silence on Jemma's end. "Tall, gorgeous, works for Uncle Nick?"

"I thought his name was Al-something."

Jemma sounded so genuinely puzzled that a seed of doubt crept into Fitz's mind. "Jemma," he said slowly, "did you and Uncle Nick talk about today?"

"What _about_ today?" she snapped, and oh, not good. Now she was so confused she was getting angry.

"About him asking us to help Mack move in but only me going?"

"Fitz!" Now wounded!Jemma made an appearance. What a conversation this was turning into. "I would _never_ do that to you! Make you go to the house alone to spend a day with a stranger."

"All right, all right, jeez, I get it," Fitz groused. So this was solely Uncle Nick's doing. But _why_?

"So," Jemma said, hurt replaced by a teasing note, "tall and gorgeous, huh?"

"Oh, _Jemma,"_ he sighed, leaning against the workbench, "you should _see_ him. A religious man might say his beauty makes the angels weep."

"What do _you_ say?"

Fitz craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of Mack through the shed's tiny window, but he must've been in a different part of the yard. "Kudos, evolution. Well done, you."

Jemma giggled. "So, is Mr. Evolution—sorry, _Lieutenant General Evolution_ —eye candy only, or could there be something there?"

And Fitz— _froze_. There in the dusty shed full of suspicious insect remains, he froze and allowed himself to think about what he'd forced himself _not_ to think about all afternoon.

 _Could_ there be something there? He and Mack had had... _moments_ , undeniably. But Fitz had classed those moments under "wacky stories to tell at parties"— _that time I flirted with my mum's boyfriend's employee while I helped him move into my childhood home_. He hadn't thought—hadn't _let_ himself think—that those moments didn't have to end with today. That he and Mack could keep being in each other's lives.

Would Mack want that, though? The differences between them that seemed interesting in conversation yawned like unbridgeable canyons when Fitz pictured them as a couple. From what he'd pieced together, Mack had to be nearly 40. He was a high-ranking military official and a widower with two enormous dogs he doted on like children.

Fitz was a twenty-one-year-old theoretical physics grad student with little idea what he was doing with his life and a relationship record of four months. Through hard work and time, most days were good days lately, but on bad days he was lucky to find one word in three when he needed it, could barely hold a pencil, let alone the tools of his lab work, because of the shaking in his hands, and lashed out at the entire world because of it.

Laid out that starkly, they sounded like a bad road, indeed.

"Fitz?" Jemma's voice jerked him back to himself. "Oh, dear. Did I break you?"

"No, I—" He shook his head. "It's more complicated than that."

"Of course it is," she said in the "brothers are hopeless" voice she'd perfected in their teen years. "'Complicated' is practically in the _definition_ of 'relationship.' But you know my rule."

"No cyberbees," Fitz said automatically.

Jemma paused. "Well, yes, but I was thinking of the other one."

The other one. Fitz closed his eyes and hung his head. "Life's stolen too much of our happiness for us to steal any more from ourselves."

"I say that because I mean it, Fitz," she said gently.

"I know," Fitz said. "I do, too." That didn't mean it would be easy, stealing that happiness back.

"Good," Jemma said decisively. "Now go get him. Take him to dinner, maybe."

"Dinner?" Fitz said. "It's—" He pulled his phone from his ear to check the time. "Oh." 5:30? When did that happen?

Jemma laughed. "But, erm, maybe wash up first, if you've been mucking about in the shed. And send pictures!"

"Good _bye_ , Jemma," he said, laughing, and hung up on her.

The instant Fitz opened the shed door, he was greeted by an exuberant Asta, who pranced around him for a minute before gently taking the hem of his T-shirt in her mouth and tugging. "Oookay," Fitz said, laughing harder, "I guess I'm going this way?"

Once she was convinced he was going to go where she led, Asta let go of his shirt and walked beside him, the occasional nudge of her enormous head keeping him moving in the right direction. The right direction turned out to be the northeast property boundary, where they were greeted by an unimpressed Astro and... oh... dear...

Shirtless. Mack.

Fitz swallowed, and Asta cocked her head, probably confused by the pheromones pouring off him. Jesus _Christ_ , how were those muscles _real_? Fundamental laws of nature were being violated. And do _not_ get him started on the _sweat_. And the _glistening_.

He swallowed again. It really was hot out here.

Asta sat at Mack's side, nudging his hand to get his attention. He patted her head absently, and she huffed and head-butted his hip. He swayed and looked down at her, and she trotted over to Fitz, sitting beside him as if to say to Mack, "Look, human, I brought you a present."

"Asta, did you _herd_ him here?"

Fitz shrugged. "Apparently she thinks I'm a sheep?"

Mack shook his head. "Sorry 'bout that."

"It's all right," he said. "It's the same as when Jemma hauls me out of the lab. Usually when it's time to eat."

"Oh, is it—" Mack checked his phone. "Huh." He looked around. "Guess I got into a zone."

"I'll say," Fitz murmured.

"So, dinner?" Mack asked. "It's early, but I'm famished."

"I could eat," Fitz said. He grinned. "I could always eat."

"Great. Let me get this last tree out of here—"

 _Tree_?

Mack leaned over (thank you) and grabbed the base of a volunteer maple growing along the fence. The trunk was as big around as Mack's wrist, but he gripped it tight and pulled, biceps straining ( _thank_ you), and it popped out as easily as if it were a bit of clover.

Mack went to toss the tree to the side, but Fitz yelled, "Wait!" and pulled out his phone. "A portrait of the victor," he said. Mack rolled his eyes but mugged for the camera with his "vanquished enemy."

"Terrific," Fitz said earnestly.

"I better not see that on Facebook," Mack warned.

"I would _never_." This one was for him.

And Jemma.

"Here's the thing," Mack said as he pulled off his work gloves and started walking toward the house, Fitz and the dogs falling in around him, "I offered dinner, but I don't have anything besides coffee and a bag of Doritos." He looked at Fitz from the corner of his eye. "I’m guessing you know a couple places that deliver."

Fitz grinned widely. "Come on. I'll show you the magic folder."

There'd been a lot of arguing about whether Mum and Daisy should take the magic folder when they moved out. Jemma and their parents had argued that leaving behind a folder of the best delivery places around would be a nice gesture to the new occupants, while Fitz and Daisy, not caring that it made them seem petty, had argued that maybe they didn't _want_ to make nice gestures to the new occupants. Fitz had never been so happy to have lost.

They had put in a massive order with the Greek place up the street when Fitz's phone started buzzing madly. He grimaced apologetically at Mack and looked at his message screen—and burst out laughing.

 **THE BRITSIS:** Fitz!  
**THE BRITSIS:** WARN ME next time  
**THE BRITSIS:** movie night w/parentals  
**THE BRITSIS:** had 2 explain 2 mum y choking on popcorn  
**THE BRITSIS:** NOT COOL  
**THE BRITSIS:** also  
**THE BRITSIS:** if karma turns out 2b real, yours is PHENOMENAL _  
_ **THE BRITSIS:** may have 2 reassess stance on cloning

 **ME:** lesbian

 **THE BRITSIS:** one needn't b a cubist 2 appreciate picasso, leopold

 **ME:** Oi!  
**ME:** Mack isn't an OBJECT  
**ME:** if u want 2 ogle, try porn _  
_ **ME:** (purple bin 2nd folder 4 starters)

Fitz locked the phone and tossed it onto the coffee table. "Sorry," he told Mack, who was coming into the room with two beers in his hand. "Sisters."

Mack nodded and handed him one of the beers with the top off. "I have one. And a brother. You have two sisters, right?"

Fitz nodded. "One brother, too." He took a drink; it was a microbrewed brown ale, so it tasted like something other than piss, which he appreciated.

"Yeah?" Mack squinted. "Don't think I've heard the general mention him."

Fitz swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Mm, no one talks about him. He's somewhere between Lord Voldemort and the mad first wife in the attic."

Mack's eyes flicked upward in alarm. " _Is_ he in the attic?"

Fitz's bark of laughter made him choke on his beer, and he took the napkin Mack held out to him with a grateful smile. "No, he—oh, fuck if I know where he is. Every few years he blows through town to be a prat to our parents and make Daisy think he's taking her with him when he leaves. Last time was a year ago; we should be good for a while."

"Hmm. Not a big fan, I take it."

"He—" Fitz stopped and took a deep breath. This was _not_ an appropriate topic. "No. I'm not."

Fitz could tell Mack had questions, but he nodded and launched into a heavily redacted but still funny story about something Uncle Nick had done at work the week before. Fitz appreciated it more than he could say.

They ate dinner on the back porch while Asta chased imaginary sheep and Astro ambled around the fence, reinforcing the boundaries. The yard looked better after one afternoon of Mack's efforts than it had after six months' of the Coulson-Mays'. A contented silence settled between them, and when their fingers brushed occasionally as they reached for dolma or tzatziki, they were quiet, companionable touches.

"There was a place like this in our old neighborhood," Mack said quietly. "Trikala, it was called. Where the owner's parents came from. Everybody in there fucking _loved_ Tim. I'd go in, and it'd be 'Yes, Mr. Mackenzie, thank you, Mr. Mackenzie'—polite, you know, but nothing special. Tim walked in, and the place would erupt. People coming outta the kitchen to pinch his cheeks, extra portions of everything in the bag, no charge. Like this skinny Irish kid from Champaign-Urbana was a long-lost grandson."

Fitz smiled. He heard so much in Mack's voice: pride, bemusement, loss. "Did he mind?"

"Mind? Asshole ate it up. Spoke five languages, coulda learned Greek in a month. Instead he let the owner's mother teach him easy words and phrases for _years_ and acted like it was a big struggle to get 'em right. Probably because she'd pat his butt and give him extra baklava every time he 'learned' a new one. He said someday he was gonna invite our friends over, and then he was gonna walk into Trikala and order one of everything to see what they'd do."

"Did he?" Fitz asked.

Mack shook his head. "Never got the chance. He, uh—"

"Hey," Fitz said softly, "remember what I said. You don't owe me anything." Of course he wanted to know. Wanted to know what'd happened to this man who'd been Mack's world. But it wasn't his to know if Mack didn't want him to.

"When he died—when I had to tell them he'd died—only his own blood cried more. One of the owner's brothers punched me, said it musta been my fault." He rubbed his cheek as though he could feel the blow. "Lotta that going around."

"Mack," Fitz breathed.

"He was chief engineer on the _Iliad_ ," Mack said, and the gasp was out of Fitz's mouth before he could stop it.

"Oh, god, _Mack_."

"You remember? You'd've been, what, sixteen?"

"Seventeen. I heard tail ends of stories. Uncle Nick and our parents debated it constantly. But whenever my little sister came into the room—she was twelve. Didn't seem right.."

Mack nodded. "No child should _ever_ have to—but, of course, some don't get a choice. Do you?"

Fitz shrugged and looked away. They weren't focusing on him now.

"I was one of the lucky ones." Mack was staring at his hands, but Fitz wondered what he was seeing. "When the mutineers—God, what a fucking ridiculous word, right?—they didn't—they needed Tim alive. He might have made it through the whole thing, only something exploded, and—the Navy gave him a posthumous commendation for bravery." The bitterness in his tone at those words cut Fitz to his bones. "They think he sabotaged the machine on purpose to end the mutiny." He shook his head. "That wasn't Tim. He would've been looking for another way. He would've wanted to stop that mutiny _and_ come home to me.

"He survived long enough to be medivacced to the nearest hospital. Never regained consciousness, but I got to say goodbye. I got to hold him one more time while there was life in his body."

Unthinking, Fitz held his hand out. Mack grasped it blindly, no substitute for what he'd lost but accepted gratefully all the same.

A thousand thoughts flashed through Fitz's mind, each equally pointless. The only one that even remotely made sense was, "How could anyone say that was _your_ fault?"

"I tell myself they never did, not really. They needed someone to blame. The mutineers were dead, and being angry at a whole branch of the military isn't _satisfying_. So there I was. The most convenient scapegoat.

"Tim's family, they had _not_ wanted him to join the Navy. Almost disowned him when he went and made a career of it. They'd hoped he would fall in love with a nice civilian who would make him settle down and leave the service."

Fitz scrunched up his face. "Who'd want to be with someone who tried to make them give up their career?"

Mack chuckled wryly. "Tim's family."

"Can't imagine what they thought of you."

"Brigadier general when we met and still on my way up. I was _not_ the guy who was going to get their sweet baby boy out of the Navy." Mack took a deep, shaky breath. "Then Tim goes and gets killed on the _Iliad_. Their most dire predictions come true."

"What happened?" Fitz asked, voice small, not sure he wanted to know but _needing_ to, for Mack's sake.

"It was 2006 in Maryland. We couldn't be legally married. _And_ we were under DADT, so there was no official note of our relationship with the army or the navy. Only Tim's name was on the house, even though I had a better credit history and higher income. Every time we tried to get a mortgage in both names, I got redlined. Tim had a will, thank God, but it must've seemed like an easy target for his parents."

Fitz's brain whirled in crazy spirals. With each word out of Mack's mouth, the _enormity_ of what he'd been through and what he'd lost hit Fitz more fully. The fact that he was still standing, let alone moving into a new house and buying new kitchenware and _smiling_ —Mack was deeply and intrinsically _good_ , and even if they never saw each other again, Fitz felt honored to have been in his presence for a day.

"They contested the will?" Fitz asked.

Mack snorted. "As an opening salvo. They threw everything their lawyers could think of at me, tied me up in court for _years_. By the end, they'd stopped being mad at me. By the end it was... obstinance."

And here Mack sat, on the patio of Fitz's childhood home, so their obstinance had obviously paid off. "How did they—I mean, if he had a will—"

Mack gave a flat, humorless snort. "That's the killer. They _lost_. They did as much as they could for as long as they could, but they lost. But four years of litigation fucking broke me, even with assistance from the Army. The bank foreclosed on the house, and I didn't have the energy to fight on both fronts." He stared across the yard. "It was time to be moving on."

Fitz stared at him. "You went through all that, and _none of you_ has the house?" He shook his head. "Christ, Mack."

"I know." They looked at each other a second longer, and then Mack started laughing. At first it sounded like it was being forced out of him, but as giant waves of laughter started rolling over him, his shoulders loosened, and he seemed to fall into it, letting it carry him where it wanted.

Fitz was laughing, too, caught on the same wave, even as he acknowledged how terrible the situation was. They sat on the deck, with the dogs staring at them like they'd lost their minds, and laughed until their eyes streamed and their sides ached, letting it wash away the tiniest fragment of their collective hurt.

*

"Do you need to—you think you could—" Mack's gut clenched, and he shook his head. "Never mind."

"Mack." Fitz crossed the foyer and put a hand on his arm. "What?"

"I—" Mack clenched his jaw and looked away to collect himself. "Do you need to go?"

Fitz had one shoe on and the other in his hand. Leaving had been the plan, but since dinner, Mack had felt hollow and shaky. Being alone in a new place scared him in a way that nothing had for years.

Fitz pulled his hand away to rub his neck. "I mean, I don't have anywhere to _be_ , if that's what you mean. But the buses stop running in half an hour, so I have to go soon if I don't want to be, um, stuck?"

He didn't seem sure of that, so Mack offered, "Stranded?"

"Yeah. Better. Stranded." He shrugged. "Unless you want to drive me home later."

"I meant can you stay the night," Mack said, not meeting Fitz's gaze.

Fitz exhaled so sharply it was almost a cough. "Oh. Oh, wow, I—"

"On the couch or something," Mack said, rolling his eyes. "I'm not _propositioning_ you. I'd just prefer not to be alone in the house tonight."

Fitz's eyes softened, and Mack relaxed. Fitz got it, in his way.

Fitz's expression brightened in a way that had Mack worried. "You're an Army man; I assume you don't mind roughing it?"

"I'm a _Lieutenant General_ ," Mack reminded him. "Not a lot of call for roughing it these days."

Fitz waved that off and bounded toward the basement door. "Back in a titch!"

Mack wasn't sure if 'a titch' was an actual unit of time measurement in Scotland, but in Fitz's case it turned out to be ten minutes of intense and increasingly creative profanity that ended with Fitz struggling up the stairs precariously balancing a tent bundle almost as big as he was, two deflated air mattresses, and a bicycle pump.

"Backyard camping!" he announced. "The only kind when I was a kid. What do you think?"

Mack stared, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. The longer he went without responding, the more slumped and defeated Fitz looked, until he was shaped more like a question mark than a man. "Or, I mean, if that's a terrible idea, I'll put it back and sleep on the, on the couch."

"Hey." Mack reached out and caught Fitz's arm. "It's not terrible. I loved backyard camping when I was a kid. I just don't understand _why_."

"Because if you're anything like me," Fitz said quietly, "you don't _just_ want someone in the house tonight. You want someone _close_. In a tent, we can be close together without the awkwardness of sharing a bed with a person we don't _actually_ know."

And there was that. As close as he was feeling to Fitz, especially after having told him the story of Tim's death and what came after, they didn't _really_ know each other. "Yeah," he said, "all right. Let's camp in the backyard."

"Great!" Fitz beamed. "Uh, can you run down and grab sleeping bags? I ran out of arms."

It took a while, because Fitz insisted on erecting the tent himself ("By the end of December I will have a Masters degree in theoretical physics; I can put up a bloody tent") and then discovered he did _not,_ in fact, remember how it worked. But eventually they were inside a functional tent with two confused dogs outside.

The tent had a top panel of clear plastic. They stretched out on their sleeping bags and stared up at the dark sky, letting the night sounds quiet their minds and soothe their hurts.

"I've never told the whole story before," Mack said into the darkness, eyes pointed straight up.

"I'm honored you told it to me," Fitz said, and though his tone was stilted, like maybe "honored" wasn't the word he meant, his sincerity was clear.

After a pause so long it felt more like a stop, Fitz said, in a flat tone, "I almost drowned."

Mack turned his head sharply, but Fitz was staring out the skylight. " _What_?"

"My—" Mack's eyes had adjusted enough to see Fitz making the  already familiar gesture near his head. "I was fourteen. I almost drowned."

"Hey," Mack said, shaking his head, "no. You don't have to tell me this because I—"

"But I _want_ to tell you. I couldn't when—it's easier in the dark. Easier when I won't be able to see how you look at me after."

"Turbo, I promise I won't look at you any different."

" _Don't_ make a promise you can't keep."

"I have been with you _all day_ ," Mack said, sharper than he meant. "Knowing _why_ you are the way you are isn't going to make me feel any less like the way you are is pretty great."

Fitz laughed shakily. "Most people don't feel that way."

Mack harrumphed and turned his gaze to the sky. "Most people aren't worth the paper they're printed on, as my aunt says. So what happened? If you want to tell me."

Even in the dark, Mack could see Fitz gathering strength to face those old memories. "My parents traveled _a lot_ for work. They tried to never be gone at the same time, but it didn't always work out. Then our older brother had to watch us."

Mack chuckled, thinking of his older brother. "I can imagine how he felt about that."

"Hmm. He would take us places our parents didn't let us go. We've since come to realize it was because they were cheap places to get us out of his hair for a couple hours, but at the time we felt so daring.

"There's this beach—closed now, too many tragic stories, I guess. He took us swimming there, and—you know, to this day I don't know if he told his friends to meet him, or if it was, um, co... con—like an accident only not as bad."

"Coincidence," Mack said.

"Coincidence, yeah. I don't know how they ended up there—at the time I didn't know they _were_ there. Jemma and I were messing about in the water—kid stuff—and I—we were daring each other, how far can you go, that sort of thing. We didn't realize about the undertow. Or that our brother wasn't there anymore."

Mack sucked in a sharp breath.

"Maybe it wouldn't have made any difference, if he'd still been there. Jemma went for help, but..." He shook his head, eyes squeezed shut tight. "By the time I came to shore, the hy—hypo—" Fitz smiled wryly , and Mack kept his mouth shut. "The oxygen deprivation was—had—" He rubbed his face and sighed. "Apraxia and aphasia. The hands that let me understand the world and the words that let it understand me. The next few years were... I'm better now, but... I think I was on a trajectory that got knocked off-course that day."

Mack ached for the man beside him. If Fitz would let him, Mack would hold him so tight he'd _never_ doubt his ability to handle whatever life threw at him—on any trajectory. If Fitz would let him, he'd stand beside him on his trajectory and lend his strength when Fitz ran out of his own.

He set that aside and said quietly, "I don't know what trajectory you were on before, but I like where the new one's brought you."

Fitz turned toward Mack. His eyes glittered in the moonlight filtering through the plastic skylight. "You mean that, don't you?"

"Wouldn't've said it if I didn't."

Fitz studied him for another minute, seeming to want to say something. In the end he said, "Thank you." Then he rolled onto his side, said, "G'night, Mack," and was out like a light in under two minutes.

"Night, Turbo," Mack said, but sleep was more elusive for him.

He laid on his back in the dark, staring at the stars faintly visible through the skylight. And he thought about Fitz.

It had taken him by surprise, the strength of his reaction to Fitz's story. He hadn't expected to feel that strongly about someone he'd known for less than a day. But it didn't feel wrong. In fact, he only felt unsure _how_ he wanted Fitz in his life, not _whether_.

Mack could use another friend. Hunter and Bobbi felt as close as siblings, but he often needed a break from their on-again-off-again-wait-I've-forgotten-if-we're-off-again-or-on-again relationship drama. Vic and Izzy had been literal lifesavers after Tim died and Mack hadn't known how to survive day-to-day without him. But they were _couple_ friends, and as he'd relearned how to live not as half of a couple, they'd drifted apart. The only person he spent time with was Trip. One friend did not an adequate social circle make.

So if it turned out that Fitz only wanted Mack's friendship, then Mack would say that was one more friendship than he'd had this morning and count himself damned lucky.

And if Fitz wanted something else, what then? Did Mack want that? Was he _ready_ for it?

Anyone who presumed to tell Mack what Tim would or wouldn't have wanted for him could go fuck themselves straight to hell, but Tim _wouldn't_ have wanted Mack to be lonely. Tim had been the one who'd arranged get-togethers with friends, shoved Mack's phone into his hand and ordered him to call his parents or brothers, invited the neighbors in to chat.

Mack even suspected that Tim would've wanted him to fall in love again one day. And it wasn't like he'd been living like a monk all these years. He'd had sex. Tried dating. But nothing had lasted more than a couple nights. Had they been the wrong people, or had he not been ready? Impossible to say, now, and not important.

Fitz, though. Fitz felt like he could maybe be the right person.

Mack wasn't sure he believed in ghosts, but suddenly Tim was _there_ , as clearly as if he were standing in the tent. He smiled at Mack, that warm, crooked, impish smile, and crouched next to Fitz. "Oh, Mack, he's _adorable_."

"Cut that out," Mack said, though he was chuckling. "He's short, not a doll."

"And so _young_ ," Tim said. He glanced wickedly at Mack. "Sure you'll be able to keep up, old man?" Tim had been three years younger than Mack, and he'd loved making "old man" jokes. Mack grumbled, and Tim laughed. "Seriously, Mack, this one's a keeper."

And, yeah. Mack thought so, too. He wasn't sure he was ready, but the thought of letting Fitz walk out of his life without _trying_ made him ache.

As soon as he had that realization, the vision of Tim faded. Mack reached for him, but there was nothing to catch. In the quiet that followed, Mack's mind calmed, and his eyelids drooped. In the last seconds before sleep, he realized one last thing: Fitz had told him the entire story of his accident, and he hadn't said his brother's name once.

*

Fitz was being a bit of a creeper. He was aware of this. But some sadistic _arsehole_ bird had started chirping at four bloody forty-five, and Fitz had been lying here ever since, wide awake and staring at the way the light of the rising sun made Mack's skin glow like burnished copper and how charmingly serious his expression was in sleep.

Fitz's reactions to Mack fascinated him _almost_ as much as Mack himself did. Fitz rarely got soppy about people he was attracted to. Hell, he rarely got soppy about people he'd had sex with. But Mack... Mack was different, in a way Fitz couldn't put his finger on but felt eager to figure out.

At 5:00, Mack's phone started beeping. He swore and stabbed at it. Then he groaned, staring upward and dragging his hands across his face.

"Good morning, Mack," Fitz said softly. Mack stilled. "How are you feeling?"

Mack relaxed and rolled onto his side to face Fitz. "Like I spent the night sleeping on a leaking air mattress in a tent."

Fitz grinned. "Fun, huh?"

"Yeah," Mack grunted. " _Fun_."

Fitz bit his lip and looked at Mack's face. Now that he knew the story, the lines of tragedy were obvious. But there was also hope and determination. Mack would find a way to be more than the things that had happened to him. "I'd like to kiss you," Fitz said.

Mack's eyes widened. "Yeah?" When Fitz nodded, he slid to the edge of his mattress. "I'd like that."

It was never going to be the kiss that opened the heavens. They were balanced precariously on air mattresses that had spent the night slowly losing air; they were mindful of morning breath and antsy, waiting dogs, and the vast library of things they didn't know about each other. But Fitz put a hand on Mack's cheek, and Mack put a hand on Fitz's hip, and when their lips brushed, and brushed, and brushed again, something started humming in Fitz, like a circuit too long open had finally closed. He pulled his face away but left his hand where it was, thumb stroking Mack's stubbled cheek as he said, "And now, I'd like to ask you out on a proper date."

"Yeah?" Fitz nodded again, and Mack smiled. "I'd like that, too."

The sun was out; the birds were singing; the dogs were pawing at the tent; and it felt to Fitz like the most perfect day in years.

*

"All due respect, General, superior officer or no, meddle in my life that way again and I will make sure you regret it."

General Fury rolled his eye and took one of the donut holes Mack held out to him (Fitz had agreed to reveal Fury's secret source in return for Mack taking them there on the way to his bus stop). "You think I _enjoyed_ that, Mackenzie? I'm running an army here, not a damned matchmaking service. But I _see_ things. Like, maybe one of my deputies is a good match for my best friends' house. And then maybe he's a good match for their son. And when I see those things, I have to _do something_ about them. Because if I don't, then I don't sleep. And you remember what happens when I don't sleep."

Mack winced and nodded.

"Now," Fury said, "do you have a damned date or not?"

The corners of Mack's mouth twitched. "Yes, General, I do."

"Then get the hell out of my office and speak of this to no one."

Mack saluted. " _Gladly_ , sir."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos will be hugged fiercely; comments will be loved and adored and replied to _slowly._
> 
> Maybe stop by my [tumblr](hugealienpie.tumblr.com/)?


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